


Gothic Horror in Westeros

by Ketch117



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, ned x cat week, nedcatweek2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 08:25:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketch117/pseuds/Ketch117
Summary: The victorian era is over, Edward Lancaster is king, and as the turn of the century comes closer, fog-shrouded streets conceal a myriad of crimes, and not all of them are the doings of man. In the greatest city of the empire the sun never sets on, untold horrors breed in cobbled alleyways and scheme on the estates of the gentry, a myriad of evils fester behind the scenes. And dropped unexpectedly into the middle of this, two outsiders try to find their way through it all intact.





	Gothic Horror in Westeros

Five o'clock in the morning was an awkward time to board a train. It was as black as the earl of hell's weskit, there were still two hours before dawn, and the station at Istanbul was all but deserted, the bays and stations empty. The only exception was the train designated in railway guides as the Orient Express. It was everything that it’s reputation promised, and it looked uncommonly smart and polished, gleaming blue and gold under the station’s lights, the steam hissing up from beneath the engine with that pungent railway smell, the porters busy at the five long coaches, on one of which the curtains were drawn back to reveal the glowing pink interior of a dining salon.

By the step stood a broad englishman with cold and faded saphiric eyes, with dark hair and waxed whiskers, which made for a fierce and martial aspect even dressed as a civilian, as well as a roguish aspect that the man obviously worked hard to cultivate. He was wearing a long overcoat, which after so long in the desert he was clearly not entirely comfortable in, and although his guns were oiled and stowed in a trunk onboard with the rest of his possessions (guns were fine things, but carrying them around with you gave you a mind to use), he was wearing a 1796 pattern heavy cavalry sword sheathed at his hip that left no question at all of his occupation. It was not an outrageous weapon given his own size but still a far heavier weapon than anything anybody with sense would attempt to fence with.

He was also the only one still waiting to board - his man was onboard with his luggage - Vernon, his servant, who had recently entered his employ after his previous one met a bad end. They’d found a comfortable coexistence recently, after he soundly thrashed the man for misplacing his tack, and to his credit the man seemed to think better of him for it. The porters were engaged wheeling their loads along the carriage, but the stationmaster, who alone seemed to have nothing to do, was keeping him company whether he wanted it or not. A cold wind came whistling down the platform. He shivered, and cast a surreptitious glance at the watch he wore on a pocket chain. Five minutes - only five - until departure. He glanced up at the windows of the sleeping-car above him, then down at the train tracks.

"Not so many traveling this time of year, or else we wouldn't be able to find room for you. Let's hope you don't get snowed in at the Taurus."

"That happens?" He asked, his gaze still wandering but finding nothing to occupy it along the Empty Station save the train itself. It was a magnificent locomotive, of course.

"It has been known to occur. Not this year, at least as yet." He paused a moment, reconsidering. “Still, it has been cold.”

"Then let's hope." He patted the man on the back to show that he was not haughty, then removed a small metal flask from inside his coat, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip, then a more substantive swallow..

"The weather reports from Europe, they are bad.” The stationmaster was continuing, sounding delighted at the gloomy news, the way some people tended to be. “In the balkans, there is much snow. In Germany as well."

“Well, it’s winter.” He said, replacing the flask. “You expect snow.”

He ran an appreciative eye over the train again. Above their heads the blind of one of the sleeping car compartments was pushed aside and a woman looked out. He didn’t get much of a look at her, but her face was a trifle pale, with a tumble of auburn curls. For a moment he looked at her, then his gaze instinctively turned as the carriage door swung suddenly open. A bright, cheerful light filled the hall beyond and spilled out into the night, and when he glanced again she was gone.

* * * * *

Catelyn had had little sleep since she left the Bagdad on the preceding Thursday, but she was used to going long periods without sleep, and it was all so exciting. She’d always loved to travel, of course, ever since she was a little girl, but she’d never done it like this before, and she’d been awake almost the entire time, not wanting to miss anything. Neither the train to Kirkuk nor the rest house and Mosul, nor last night on the train had she slept properly, or for more than a few hours. Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated compartment she had flopped out of bed, pulled herself up with her strong arms and carefully manoeuvred herself using the railings until she was looking out of the window and her arms were taking her weight fairly comfortably. From there, she pushed aside the blinds and peered out.

This had to be Constantinople. Nothing to see, of course, just a long, poor-lighted platform with loud, furious altercations in arabic going on somewhere - a lot like every other station they’d seen in their journey west. But the traintracks followed the city, and once the train rolled out of the station and they were underway again she’d be able to get a better look. Two men below her were talking in french, the big man who was wearing a sword (that she thought was a quite the affectation) who spoke french with a bit of an accent, and the smaller man who she took to be the stationmaster. She smiled faintly. It must have been very cold outside - that was why they heated the train to such an uncomfortable extent. She tried to force the window down lower, but it would not go. Perhaps it was stuck, but more likely it wasn't designed to open any further. Perhaps it wasn’t designed to open at all.

Ned was asleep, dozing gently, his fit torso exposed since he’d kicked off the sheets. The warmth always made Ned sluggish and uncomfortable, he’d be grateful for a little fresh air. He could never abide the heat of the French Riviera, where they’d met two years ago. He was made for the cold, he’d told her, a million times since then, and she’d laughed and told him that she’d have to get used to the cold, then. As it turned out, it was just one of the things she’d had to get used to.

The wagon lit conductor had come up to the two men. The train was about to depart, he said, monsieur had better mount. Catelyn lowered herself carefully back into the bed, and then pressed herself against him, until she was tucked comfortably in their bead, her cheek on his chest, and his chin above her head. Ned felt her moving against him and stirred, but didn’t wake. She caught herself smiling, a smile that would have scandalised her before she’d gotten married, and still made her think herself quite the wanton. There was another reason she hadn’t been getting much sleep.

She tensed in surprise as the train’s whistle shrieked, and Ned stirred again, and his eyes blearily opened. He moved his lips up to hers and they shared a soft, tender kiss. His hand moved down her side to her hip and pressed her against him.

"Good start," Catelyn said with a familiar smirk. She even tossed her head a bit, because she knew it would encourage him.

“Where are we?”

“Constantinople.”

Ned wriggled beneath her with an indistinct mumble, and then pulled her back to his naked shoulder. At the smell of him and the touch of his skin, she feel her desire for him rise again, and she hugged him again, pressing herself against him firmly, and kissed him. Ned, now entirely awake, touched her hair with his lips and carefully slipped his hands under her delectable stern, hoisted her close, and kissed her soundly. She gave a muffled squeak for form’s sake before thrusting her tongue between his lips, and they were moving together.

They moved together in the bed with scattered blankets, a bed that was still warm and soaked with dreams. They moved slowly, without haste or urgency, but with a delight somewhere between familiarity and discovery. The movements, sharing themselves with each other filled them with joy and happiness, and so joy and happiness was in everything they did. And even though both were so different, both products of different worlds - those weren't differences which divide, but those that bring together and bind, bind so strongly and so tightly.

It was at once familiar, and like their first time, when he was entranced by her glaring nakedness as she emerged from the water and his own intensive desire, and she was enthralled by his finesse and sensibility. And just like the first time she wanted to tell him, but he silenced her with a kiss and a caress and talking seemed the least important thing in the world. And later, when he wanted to tell her, he couldn't get a sound out of himself, and later still the happiness and delight overwhelmed them both, and neither thought the act of love had ever felt so sweet, so full, and there remained something which was a silent outcry, and the world ceased to exist, it was just the two of them, and there was silence, silence and peace.

The world slowly returned to the two of them, the bed saturated with dreams and the scent of the two of them, breathing heavily and coated in a sheen of sweat. She stretched across to the nearby table for a gilt-tipped cigarette, lighting it from a tiny spirit lamp, and Ned couldn’t help but kiss her again, just below the collarbone. She gasped softly in response, still sensitive despite feeling slow and satisfied, trickling smoke down her shapely nostrils as she studied her husband, head on one side; then she pushed herself upright, and drawing on her scented weed.

And the train quivered ever so little, the steam rushed hissing past their window, then there followed a faint clank of buffers, a gentle rumble of wheels beneath them, and they were gliding away smoothly and ever so slowly, the almost empty platform passing from sight in succession, and then they were out of the station.

* * * * *

"Welcome aboard, monsieur." The conductor displayed to the englishman with a dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment with it's faint smell of cigar smoke and air of changeably-maintained grandeur. It was warm and welcoming: a cosy gloom tinged with blue from the silk lampshade, logs crackling behind the bronze door of the stove, a teaspoon tinkling rhythmically in a glass. Even the small but excellently equipped study - with a conference table, leather armchairs and a map of Europe on the wall - gave an impression of comfort.

But the conductor was not content to let him see for himself, all but demanding that he took the time to marvel at the fine upholstered furniture, the glossy panelling, the neatly-concealed little basin in a corner by the door, the array of lights and buttons, the hidden cupboards and drawers, the velvet curtains, and the rest. Every second word of his babble seemed to be adjectives; “superbe!” and “magnifique!" were his favourites, but once even ventured a "merveilleux!", and in truth Robert didn’t mind so much, because really it was, certainly the best-appointed train that he’d ever come across, and he positively delighted the man when he said so.

The windows on the left were blank, sightless walls, the dark of the hour and the city leaving nothing to be seen, save the occasional dark blur. The windows to his right weren't much better, really, there wasn't much to be seen at this hour, or at this place save the occasional expanse of wall. It was almost difficult to believe that the train was accelerating steadily and would soon be hurtling along at a speed of fifty miles an hour across the continent while he stood there and looked around. The conductor indicated the neat arrangement of his luggage - as though either the careful effort towards making him comfortable or the carriage had anything to do with him. His outstretched hand was suggestive.

The englishman paused, then his breeding won out and he placed in the outstretched hand a crisply folded note.

"Merci, monsieur." The conductor stopped fawning, and became brisk and businesslike, which made for a welcome change. "I have your tickets. I will also take the passport, please. You break your journey in three days, I understand?"

"Yes. I'm going to Calais." He replied. He cleared his throat. "There are not many people traveling, I imagine?" His eyes narrowed.

"Actually the train is three quarters full today. Yourself, and fourteen others, all of whom I have appraised.” 

“That seems remarkably full.” Robert replied. “Is there some party, or group, all traveling together?”

“Not to my knowledge. They just all picked today to travel.” An inveterate gossip, the man’s chest puffed up a little as he passed on his observances. “Let me see - an englishwoman traveling from Baghdad, a widow I believe. And a russian gentleman and his wife traveling from India, as well as their man in a second-class cabin of his own, an older gentleman, Austrian I believe, on his way from Manchuriafor some manner of conference.” He paused here, significantly, but Robert didn’t make note of it. “There is an American, a Spanish gentleman escorting his sister-in-law, and a Frenchman - a professor - traveling with the Austrian, and another englishman." The big englishman's eyes brightened at the second of this list, then shook his head. Imagine that - railways gave you the chance to encounter all a manner of people in strange places. "I believe the russian to be a fellow officer, as is the englishman. Perhaps they will be of interest to you. Do you require anything?"

Well, he supposed at this hour they were all asleep. He could hardly blame them. "A brandy."

  The man arranged it, then he left him in peace, and he made himself comfortable very quickly. He had a copy of a Charles Dickens novel that had been given as a gift a few years before and he'd always intended to read but never quite started (a state of affairs unlikely to change over the course of the three day train ride, unless things became very desperate) and Richard Burton's 'book of the sword', which he'd picked up on a whim and had labored his way perhaps halfway to completion, though he kept losing his place and rereading sections he'd already finished. Neither were particularly attractive prospects, but there was no ready alternative; railway bookstalls didn't tend to stock R.G. Sander's Natives I Have Shot or compilations of The Pearl, his favourite perusing material, or indeed any other periodical that aroused any feeling in him whatsoever.

Major Robert Baratheon, 47th lord of Storm's End (A decent enough cove that the proceeds of which kept him in cigars, brandy and mistresses, and though he might not use that title for the most part deep-down he was quite proud of it - he was, after all, a writ of proper nobility which could trace blood all the way back to the conquest and before (before the romans darkened England’s shores, even), not just the well-heeled descendant of some hard-eyed oik who'd done particularly well out of the dissolution of monasteries), late of Afganistan and India, and mentioned in dispatches for his bold actions under fire at Khyber Pass during the second anglo-afghan war and faced a surge of sword-waving Pathans howling for British Blood, stretched, glancing around again. Not a bad setup, not a bad setup at all.

He'd been wounded twice over the course of the war, but was still standing when the smoke cleared, and he’d recovered now, for the most part. That's more than most who took a bullet could say. In India a tiger had gotten him within reach and given him three bloody stripes across the chest - it was a good thing that there was no earthly use for the male nipple, because from then on he'd made his way through life down to just the one. But they’d been stood down, and now he was on his way home. And he had plenty of time to come to terms with what he’d decided, plenty of time to come to terms exactly what business that he had crossing half the world for the sole intention of slaughtering a man in the middle of civilised London.

He made himself comfortable. He removed his coat, his boots and his gloves, stripping down to his shirtsleeves, and sat in the plush, well-padded chair, where he helped himself to the Cognac the conductor had poured him. He’d just taken the first swallow when there was a sudden jerk. He glanced at the window and watched as the long, lighted platform slid slowly past them.

The Orient Express had begun it's three days journey across Europe.

* * * * *

When he awoke it was half past nine, and he made his way into the restaurant car, hoping for hot coffee. It was a three day journey, but one that could be sure to have its’ share of pleasant diversions, if you had a mind to look for them, and he was sure there’d be no shortage of bored fellow passengers knocking around. Robert was an experienced sharp, for him a long journey tended to be an opportunity. He tended to let his marks approach him, finding a place to sit idle and playing a few hands of solitaire until some rube suggested cards, win a game or two but diffidently, and let them suggest doing it for money (to add spice to it) then move in for the kill and fleece the poor blighter. He took it as a matter of pride that over the course of a slow weekend he could leave each and every mark aboard convinced that the train (or ship) was a nest of utter cheats and that Major Robert was the closest thing there was to a halfway honest man to be found.

But there weren’t any like prospects that morning. Indeed, there were only two (no, three) other occupants in the dining car at that moment, he supposed everyone else must have elected to breakfast alone. His gaze fell on a lady a few years younger than he was eating her breakfast and waving the attendant over to bring more coffee - an attitude which bespoke a knowledge of the world and and of traveling as well. Even her traveling dress was at once fashionable and eminently suitable to the heated atmosphere of the train. The other passenger was an old man with a virile and imperious face dozing in an armchair, with a warm scottish rug pulled right up to his chin. Even in sleep his grey brows were knitted sternly, the corners of his mouth were set in world-weary folds, and from time to time the wrinkled eyes fluttered.

The other was a man a few years younger then himself, lolling against a table by the door (which had hidden him from him when he’d come in). He was fresh and jaunty, with his cap tilted forward rakishly over one eye, smoking a cheroot in a holder, very debonair in a clean shirt, freshly-pressed breeches and polished boots. He was big, though not quite as big as Robert was, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, but he was also damned handsome. He had bright green eyes, a smile that cut like a knife, and one of those clean-cut faces beneath fair hair that put Robert in mind of moral Norse gods, too splendid altogether to be in the company of less gifted men.

But despite how surprisingly empty as the dining car was, despite the number of passengers and the relative lateness, Robert could find no fault with the breakfast itself. He took his time with it, lifting the lids off silver dishes on the sideboard to find eggs and kidneys and chops and bacon and kippers and haddock and kedgeree and fried ham and devilled turkey and scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes. All the food also came with two sorts of tea as well as coffee and jam and three sorts of marmalade, and the waiter kept bringing him more and more hot buttered toast. Robert piled his plate with everything that looked appetizing then sat in the corner and took his time with the food -  but there was nothing at all wrong with the grub on offer in the opulent dining salon with its little pink shades and snowy cloths and silver and crystal and swift service. The woman, he noticed, ate sparingly.

A well-practiced hand with nothing better to do, Robert amused himself by studying her without appearing to do so as he dealt the cards for solitaire. She was in her early twenties, with a great mass of wavy auburn hair that tumbled freely about her shoulders, and her skin was pale too, very pale, but with a slightly golden umber undertone, and she had a come-and-catch-me look in her blue-grey eye. There was, he judged with an appraiser's eye, a subtle wildness about her, like an animal from the wilderness that had only recently been tamed. Robert could be insensitive at times, but even he instinctively could tell that her slight smile hid very sharp teeth. She was drinking coffee Arabi style—black as night, sweet as love, hot as hell. 

“I don’t suppose you would care for a game?” He asked her, when she noticed him looking, and held up the cards in demonstration. She paused, then carefully put down her egg spoon and nodded, pushing her seat back… and Robert blinked in surprise when she turned it and rolled towards him, careful not to bump against the intervening tables and furniture. He’d never have guessed, looking at her.

Standing up, he removed the chair, so that she had a place to sit, and twirled his mustache with a flourish. He knew, even at twenty-five, that it was a tiresome old ‘look-at-me-I'm-a-roué’ stage gesture, but - for fucks sake - he had a mustache (not a bad one either) and it was there for the twirling. He'd have licked his thumb and curled his eyebrows if he thought that it might produce the desired results. And here he was sharing a table with a beautiful young miss - and if you don't twirl the old 'stache then, you might as well not have whiskers at all.

“Major Baratheon, madam.” He said, inclining his head, and winking.

“Catelyn.” She replied, with a careful but artless smile.

He shuffled them, then he dealt. Though he had many vices, if he had one, abiding love in his life, it was cards. He loved the way they purred like contented animals when the dealer shuffled them. He loved the soft, waxy feel of them between his fingertips as he fanned them out, and the way their faces smiled up at him like old friends. Most of all, he loved the way their patinas of ink could light up his whole world, the way they could send his pulse racing and his blood fizzing through his veins like sparkling wine. Yes, Robert Baratheon loved cards. And if they could be a fickle mistress, what of it? Life should be like women, constantly exciting, surprising and mysterious. And a gentleman accepted his losses and paid them off as it became necessary - it was that very thing that made him a gentleman.

“Do you travel much?” She asked him.

He looked at his hand, and frowned, thoughtfully. He had a pair of fives, a seven and a nine in suit with each other, and a Queen of Spades - not great odds in his favour but hardly the worst. Any pairs he could make would be weak. “I do, yes.” He replied, putting his cards face down on the table. “Though I spend so much time on the outskirts of the empire, I usually do it by horse.”

“I’ve seldom had the opportunity to travel. Yet ever since I have, I find I quite enjoy it.”

“Really?” Face carefully unreadable, he fed in the three useless cards to no great advantage.

“Oh yes. It lends itself to romance, I can’t help but think. Strangers all around, all people we could never expect to meet in the usual run of things, people of every class, nationality, age. But for three days we are all brought together, we sleep and eat under one roof, we cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days we go our seperate ways, and we most likely never see each other again.”

Robert nodded slowly, reprising his assessment of the woman somewhat at this unexpected response,  then laid down his cards, and was hardly a surprise when she lay down a pair of jacks and took her winnings. “Another hand, perhaps? I’d enjoy the chance to win my money back, or at least to spend more time with such an enchanting creature as you.”

“I don’t think so, Major. It was an enjoyable diversion, but my breakfast is getting cold, and I don’t want to push my luck. Better to quit while I’m ahead.” Robert nodded and sat back. His initial assessment had been wrong, he realised, with a slightly self-mocking grin as she rolled her chair away from his table and back to her own. She was worldly enough to reach the conclusion that she’d never beat him again, but too naive to realise he’d let her win the first game.

“Tough luck, old boy.” Robert turned, and found that the dining carriages other occupant had ambled over to see what he was up to, and a cloud must have passed over the sun just then, for the brightness faded from the pretty autumn colours speeding past the window, and to Robert it seemed almost as if the shadow penetrated into the compartment, robbing the trickling brandy of its sparkle, and that even the rumble of the wheels had taken on a menacing, insistent note. "Do you know," says he at length, "I feel sure I have seen you before, but I cannot think where. That is unusual, for I have an excellent memory. No, not in England."

Robert sized him up once again, more carefully then he had at his initial assessment. Much to his own surprise, on more careful examination he quite liked the look of the man. Colonially tanned, except for the chinstrap lines showing malarial parlour. A slight case of the shakes that he did his best to cover for, and a daredevil gleam in his green eye, wayward and wild and probably going a long way to explain the shaky nerves. A soldier then, and Robert knew the type, raring off to get into ‘scrapes’, and collecting medals and shooting beasts and bandits in the name of jolly good fun, he’d worn the colours himself long enough to know the type. Know the type - he had been the type, and to think they did it all for army pay.

“If you don’t mind the company?”

“Of course not.” Robert’s lips twitched. “Major Robert Baratheon. 1st Bangalore Pioneers.” He extended his hand, and the other man took it in a firm grip.

“That’d explain it.” He paused to light a fresh cigarette, blowing out the match and watching its smoke, then threw aside the spent match. “The big game hunter.” Plainly, he was handily up on is Who’s Who. Robert took it as a quiet relief that he didn’t list all his medals, distinctions and bagged tigers. “Captain Jaime Lannister, French Foreign Legion.” Introductions done, Robert made to lie out the cards, but Jaime didn’t take the bait. Neither of them were particularly chatty. They exchanged a few brief remarks and attempts at wit, then the pair of officers lapsed into a friendly silence, content with the rightness of their thinking, and presently Jaime rose and went back to his compartment.

* * * * *

“I wonder when in the world you are going to do anything, Oberyn?” asked his brother’s wife. She about as tall as he was, perhaps not quite, with a trim enough figure but affecting a pince-nez and a severe look. Her dress was long and flowing, despite the warm interior of the carriage, and studded with semiprecious stones. As for their table, it was covered with a pristine white tablecloth and gleaming plates and cutlery. There was even a massive candelabrum in the middle of the table, thought he candles were unlit.

“My dear Melario,” he replied, with a slightly exaggerated version of his usual charm, laying down his fork. He had risen early, had breakfasted almost alone, and had spent the morning leisurely going through his notes. He had seen little of his travelling companion. Having filled up on sandwiches and drumsticks. He’d enjoyed sandwiches and drumsticks, and was now eating a delicate cream cheese expertly paired with wine when she had allowed her attention to wander to matters other than nourishment, but both of them were at the stage of a meal when one finds themselves turning to philosophy “why in the world should I do anything? My position is a comfortable one. I have an income nearly sufficient for my wants” here his tone became wry, as if to insinuate that no one’s income could ever be quite sufficient, without actually saying as much “and I enjoy an enviable social position: I am brother to Count Martel, and brother-in-law to that charming lady, his countess. To want for more would be positively gauche!” With a satisfied look, he picked his fork back up, expertly caught a choice morsel and popped it into his mouth.

“You are nine-and-twenty,” she observed, “and you’ve done nothing but—”

“Knock about and take up space? Alas, it is true.” He stroked the old scratch on his cheek, the kind of scar you’d be more likely to pick up dulling with schlaegers at Heidelberg. “Fortunately, our family doesn’t need to do things, and after leaving it so long it seems too late to start now.”

He meant it as flippantly charming, but it had entirely the opposite effect, judging by her tightening lips and narrowing eyes the remark had rather annoyed Mellario. It was to be expected, he supposed, pretty and accomplished as she was her family was hardly of the same social class as the Martels. But that had not concerned his brother - even if he wasn’t besotted with her she possessed a large fortune, and Doran was wise enough not to mind about her lack of ancestry.

“Good families are generally worse than any others,” she said.

He’d heard her make observations of this kind before, once the charm of being married into blood nobility had worn off, and he only shook his head and ran a hand through his thick dark hair, shiny with a little more hair oil than any Englishman would wear, and looked properly introspective. After all, he knew quite well what she meant. “Alas, it is true.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself. “And I suppose you don’t intend to do anything about it?”

“Oh, scarcely. A woman of the impeccable insight and good sense that my sister-in-law routinely displays cannot help but object to my doing nothing, and my family.” Oberyn replied with a wave of his hand, ruthless as cold iron but treating it as a game.

“Oh! of course he can’t help his family,” admitted Mellario, blushing very prettily. It was, after all, her family as well.

Oberyn laughed, and went on with his cheese. Now that he had temporarily shelved the question of what (if anything) he ought to do, he could carry on with what he wanted to do. Noting the intent look she was giving him, he raised an eyebrow suggestively: “Still, I take it you had something in mind?”

“Doran will be at the Embassy for the next six months, and if you ask him he’s sure to take you as an attache.”

“A very tempting offer.”

“He’ll find something for you to do. Attend all the parties and meals he doesn’t want to, most likely, you’re very charming after all, and doubtless society will find a rascal like yourself much to it’s taste. Do take it, Oberyn - to please me.”

Oberyn had a harder edge than the observer would have likely supposed, but since Doran had married her everyone had found it very hard to refuse when she put the matter in that way, wrinkling her pretty brows, twisting her little hands, and growing wistful in the eyes.

“All this on account of an idle scamp like myself, for whom you have no natural responsibility? I am visited with compunction.” Moreover, he thought it possible that he could pass the time in the position suggested with some tolerable amusement. “Of course, my dear sister, I do not know anyone who could refuse you a thing. I suppose six months’ time is not so very much.”

She was too suspicious to take him entirely at his word.

“Where’s he going to?”

“He doesn’t know yet; but given the friendship between England and Spain it is sure to be an important one.”

“Madame,” Oberyn said earnestly, “no matter such trifles, for your sake I’ve agreed, and so it is, even should it be no more than a beggarly Legation. When I do a thing, I don’t do it by halves.” He sipped his wine. Then, leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were a dozen people seated there for their luncheon, as well as one of the wagon conductors - it seemed unlikely that a train should need two conductors, especially since one of the brown uniformed Wagon Lit Conductors seemed to be taking care to keep away from the passengers, sitting at the rear of the carriage, peaked cap pulled low over a face further obscured by several bandage-like strips of sticking plaster.

As coffee was brought to them, Mellario got to her feet gracefully. Having started before Oberyn she had finished some time ago. “Well, I’m back to my compartment.” She told him. “Come along presently and converse with me.”

“Of course.”

He continued his people-watching, sipping his coffee, then when the attendant who was passing from table to table with his box of money accepting payment passed him he ordered a liqueur, then settled their bill with a ten percent tip.

At the table opposite were three men. They were, he guessed, single travellers graded and placed there by the unerring judgment of the restaurant attendants. A big swarthy Italian was picking his teeth with gusto. Opposite him a spare neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well-trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in a loud suit – possibly a commercial traveller. Rich, influential, upper-class most of them - as one would expect passengers of the Orient Express to be. Well-fed faces, substantial broadcloths and tweeds on the men, furs on the ladies, fox stoles and sealskins diamond pins, gold watch-chains, q profusion of expensive rings and brooches - a pick-pocket’s paradise, if any of them got enough together to afford the fare. About half were Americans and British, their voices mingled in a babble.

This was what Oberyn liked, the faces, the clothes, the voices - above all the voices. He had lived in England long enough to feel that vague privileged feeling of kinship that one feels for foreigners in whose country one has lived, but it did him good to get out in the world every now and again.

The other immediate table was in the favoured position of being at the table which was served first and with the choicest morsels, where an old woman, sitting very upright, was alone. Her face had a strong bone structure, and that was all the years had left of her looks, and she looked around the trains interior with such poise that she seemed to be suggesting that simply by entering such a room she was most definitely slumming. She was dressed in a mountainous seal coat, around her neck was a collar of very large pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real, and her hands were covered with rings.  Her glance caught Oberyn’s and swept over him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat, before fixing upon the restaurant attendant, addressing him in a tone of voice that was clear, courteous, and completely autocratic. She seemed friendly enough, in a condescending way.

“I shall require the linens in my compartment to be replaced nightly,” she instructed, “and I fancy fish for dinner this evening, you will see to that as well.”

The attendant was too wise to the ways of his betters to complain that she was being unreasonable. Women like that were a force of nature, to be endured, not resisted. All he did was bow, and replied respectfully that it should be done. She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose, dismissing him just like that. The train plunged into a tunnel. When light returned, the dowager was gone.

On the other side of the carriage were a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was not English and he possessed no more style than a clothes-horse. His hair was a faded grey, the same grey as his eyes, though he was not old. Younger than Oberyn was, he had no doubt. He had long, smoky lashes, and his hair was curly and thick, and flew about in the wind like the fur of a wild dog. The woman opposite him was a mere girl – twenty at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large blue eyes, a mass of beautiful auburn hair, and she was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. The pair only had eyes for each other, their eyes met often, and their hands touched constantly, two people who’d just made love and weren't quite ready to let go. Good for them he supposed.

The Americans had already left, presumably having reached some sort of understanding. The young couple did as well - presumably what they had in mind was a much more pleasant way of passing the time then watching the countryside go past. He’d started a bit when in surprise he realised her seat was on wheels, he’d never have guessed.

He was just getting up himself, when a young man but instead of dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite, that Mellario had just vacated. “Can you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft, but was clearly used to being the centre of attention.

Oberyn slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light. “Thank you.”

“Something else I can oblige you with?”

The young man made eye contact, and held it for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Not today, I think.” With that, he struck a match, lit his cigarette, and tossed Oberyn his box of matches, before leaving the carriage.

“What was that all about?” Oberyn muttered.

* * * * *

The Orient Express was on time, arriving at Belgrade at a quarter to nine. It was not due to depart again for half an hour, so Robert descended to the platform to take the opportunity to stretch his legs, and let the clean air bring a lift to his spirits as well as to his congested lungs. He did not, however, remain there long. The cold was bitter, and though the platform itself was protected, heavy snow was falling outside. And there was little room to be found inside the crowded station—the more crowded because of the delays occasioned by the inclement weather. Robert moved past or around knots of stranded and irritated passengers, until he decided he’d had enough. It was only when he turned back to the train, that he got a shock. “Ned? Is that you?”

His old friend looked just as surprised to see him. His grey eyes widened, and a small but genuine smile alit his features. “Robert?”

“It is?” Robert laughed, surprised and delighted. “Well, this is one for the books, isn’t it? We’re on the same train and didn’t even notice!”

“I haven’t gotten to know most of the passengers.” Ned replied with a shrug. Society gatherings didn't appeal to him much. Private jokes, malicious gossip, and sugary wines were no substitute for good food and the company of friends. Not that he was particularly fond of that kind of gathering either, in all candour. I suppose that I'm just basically antisocial, thought Ned sardonically, and not for the first time.

“Ah, you never change.” Robert said with a fond shake of the head. He paused. “You’re not getting off, are you?”

“No, my wife and I are going to Calais.”

“Good. Me to. Plenty of time to catch up.” He paused. “Wife?”

“Catelyn.”

Robert blinked at that. “Red-headed woman? Plays a better hand of cards then she lets on?”

“You’ve met her?”

“Yesterday. Beat me at my own game. You’ll have to tell me all about her so that I can make a better impression next time.”

Ned laughed at that. “I just might.”

The two of them got back on board the carriage. The conductor, who was on the platform stamping his feet and blowing into his cupped hands to try and keep warm, said something in acknowledgement, but neither of them heard him.

“God, it feels like it’s been forever! Where have you been? And what are you doing here now?”

Rather than answer, Ned produced, filled and lit an ostentatious pipe, wreathing himself in rings of pungent smoke. “I’m heading to Paris. Yourself?”

“London.” He paused. “So, married. I hadn’t heard.”

Ned shrugged. “It was a small ceremony.:

Robert moved to make space as the old gentleman he’d seen at breakfast and a clean-looking man a bit younger than he was, with a moustache and a thin build were coming towards them down the corridor. The younger of the two men bumped into him anyway, and looked up at Robert.

“Dreadfully sorry.” He said politely, tipping his hat. Robert only blinked, slowly. “I’ve a habit of ignoring my surroundings when I’m following a train of thought. Excuse me.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I’ve been discussing Arica with Professor Pyrcelle here. His insights are extremely valuable, if somewhat… dated. He was recommending to me a few of his former students who might be interested in my venture.”

Robert’s eye on the man became a trifle harder. The little man had made one mistake in an otherwise flawless performance: he hadn’t told them his name. Who has ever exchanged three words with an American without being told his name?

That said, he couldn’t see why anyone would bother. Robert didn’t have many enemies, at least, the ones he had were a lot more straightforward than this sort of joke and dagger nonsense. “Sensible.” Robert said.

“I was talking to him about getting a duke to attach his name to a venture I was planning.”

“Good luck with that.” Robert interrupted heartily, “there’s pretty stiff competition for your actual dukes in this economy; even the merchant banks and newspapers can’t seem to get them anymore. If it were my money, I’d settle for a brace of earls: there are plenty more of them about in the wild, and they are far more grateful for the work.”

The American gave the two of them a suspicious look, then double-took. “Are you aristocrats?’

Robert and Ned both laughed.

“No no no,” Ned said, wriggling with embarrassment, “nothing of the sort.”

“I used to be, but couldn’t stand it. I’m a plain sort of gent, and a title is too much pomp and circumstance for my taste. I gave it up. Now I’m a ‘right honourable’, which isn’t much of anything.”

“You can do that?”

“Most of us have. As for Ned, he’s just a nobleman. His brother’s got the title.” Robert explained. The American looked puzzled and distressed so Ned, taking pity on the poor colonial, tried to explain.

“My father only dropped me as a courtesy, haha. English nobility isn’t the same as it is in the Continent, you see, not even like Scotland in respect of this. The seize quartiers ‘noble in all his branches’ thing is something we don’t like to talk about and there aren’t half a dozen families with straight descent from a knight of the Conquest anyway – and they aren’t titled. Anyway,” he rambled on, “no one in his senses would want to be descended from one of that lot.”

“Oh.” It was clear he didn’t understand in the least, but was worried that they were making fun of him and didn’t want to ask any more. “But aren’t you Russian?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. I am Russian, but my title is English.”

“Come on.” Robert said, leading him away. “Let’s get a drink.” That was the way Robert was. When in doubt, have a drink.

The two of them retired for drinks, red wine like bulls blood. Robert had mellowed a bit, and was as entertaining as ever, though there was a harder edge to him than he remembered. The two of them talked at large about the American West, which Robert obviously had an extensive knowledge about, and the matter of India, which they both observed at a distance. Politics was a relatively safe topic, since Ned was an idealist and Robert was too cynical to be involved in it at any degree. They reminisced a bit, and inquired about some mutual acquaintances, and it was to Ned’s shock that he discovered that Elbert Arryn was dead.

They both avoided talking about their families.

About an hour later, they left the restaurant car, and Robert left Ned at his door. Neither said a word for a moment, then they embraced a little clumsily. “It is good to see you, Ned.”

“You too.” He said, meaning every word.

She was upright on their bed, facing him, wearing a Japanese gown of gold silk. Her hair was still up, framing her proud face, and Ned thought, and not for the first time, that he’d never seen anything so beautiful or desirable in his life. She was smiling at him, gently, and there was no trace of the little curl of her frown on those full lips, and with a sudden electric thrill he realised there was no white lace or frill showing at the collar or cuff of her clinging robe, no sign of a nightdress at all, in fact. He closed the cabin door and turned to look at her for a long moment.

“I was getting worried you had forgot me here.” She said softly.

“Never.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“It was good to catch up with Robert.” He replied after a moment. “Though he’s the last thing on my mind, now.”

“Oh really?”

He came over to her, where she was propped upright and waiting for him by the bolsters, and they kissed long and deep; he slipped his hands within the robe and felt the smooth softness of her body, and she gave a little laugh of sheer pleasure as he pulled her against him, then drew her down onto the bed. They made love with a slow, intense enjoyment that never failed to surprise both of them, and afterwards they lay in each others arms, blissfully content, murmuring the usual nonsense which is more clearly intelligible to the initiated than any proposition of logic. He talked of her beauty, and her of his strength, which was how it should be, and their love for each other, at no more than fifteen-second intervals, and finally Ned looked at his wife, and fondled her gently until her eyes narrowed and her lips parted, then kissed her again.

There was a long, but by no means tranquil interval, and when it had passed Eddard lay with her head pillowed on his chest and his hand stroking the silky nakedness of her back. He was entirely trapped beneath her with no chance of moving, because his wife was sleeping on top of him. That, it seemed, was the drawback to this sort of thing: no room to doze off contentedly, just catch-as-catch-can. “Not a day goes by when I don’t thank God for you, Catelyn.” He told her. He received no answer, she was fast asleep. But he knew that she already knew.

* * * * *

Jaime Lannister slowly pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the chair by his bed. He had spent the day relaxing comfortably, but he was tired nonetheless and his back ached unmercifully. He sat on the edge of the bed, and felt it give perceptibly under his weight. Damn thing was too soft for his liking. He preferred a hard support for his back.

He was having no luck falling asleep. The room felt stuffy and much too warm, but he knew better than to try and open the windows - they didn’t open. He stretched slowly and looked down at himself. His frame was muscular, his stomach flat and hard, but the scars depressed him. The thin white lines sprawled across his chest and gut, digging pale furrows in the tan the desert had given him, crossing and recrossing, and finally spilling down his arms. There were more on his back. Jaime hated them. Each and every one was a constant reminder of how close he'd come to dying. Each scar was a wound that might have killed him if he'd been a little slower or a little less lucky. And Jaime hated reminders of his own mortality, ever since Egypt. Ever since his father had disregarded the warnings of the locals and his fellow egyptologists, and had led that expedition into the desert, convinced the thing he’d been looking for ever since his wife died was finally in his grasp, that he would have it, once he opened the tomb of the dread pharaoh Nephren-Ka.

It was still in his dreams, sometimes, the thing that he had caught a glimpse of in the burial chamber, glutted on death. It had emerged from the depths of the earth accompanied by singing whispers as it rose, wreathing their way about it like the buzzing of flies. Flies bigger than entire worlds.

He looked around the room the railway had provided him. Not bad. The dull red colour scheme looked grim and disturbing in the low light, but he didn't mind. He'd known worse in his time, in his travels. He lay back on his bed and stretched out, without bothering to remove his trousers or his boots. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in his clothes; he'd done it often enough in the past, whether at his post for the French Foreign Legion, or on his fathers expeditions in the desert. And he was tired. Very tired.

He stared drowsily at the ceiling, letting his mind drift where it would, but it wasn’t dwelling on the darkness in the forbidden tombs of the pharaohs, or trading bullets with the turks or germans. As always, he inevitably settled on a face he knew as well as his own, a face so much like his own, winsomely beautiful, golden hair and green eyes that flashed like a tigers. He sighed wistfully. Soldiering; that was real work for a man, even if it did keep him away from his sweet sister, away from her bed. Not like his father’s obsessions, disturbing the rest of long dead kings to rob their graves and plunder their secrets in the hope of discovering the secrets of eternal life. But the thought of Cersei, somehow, made even this unpleasant business seem worth it.

She was the only thing he had as an anchor, to calm him down when he wandered the dark places of his memory. All men, he imagined, learned a similar trick, or else they broke. His memories of Cersei provided the mental equivalent of the kind, wise, tobacco-smelling, tweed-clad English father that other boys had when he was a schoolboy; the sort of father you could talk things over with during long tramps over the hills; who would gruffly tell you that ‘a chap can only do his best’ and that you ‘must play the man’ and then teach you to cast a trout-fly. Tywin Lannister wasn’t like that. But then, Cersei wasn’t the sort of sister they would have boasted of having either.

Family. What could you do?

* * * * *

That morning, Robert rose, went to the washroom and shaved his chin, waxed his whiskers, and then left his compartment to find Ned waiting for him. “I asked the conductor.” His old friend told him, and Robert laughed and shook his head. “I probably should have told you myself.” He said, and accompanied him to the dining car.

On this, the second day of the journey, barriers were breaking down. Professor Pyrcelle and Oberyn was standing at the door of his compartment talking to another of the Americans, who he still hadn’t managed to get straight.

Ned was talking at length about his wife, and Robert was indulging him fondly while he chattered away. It wasn’t that he was too cynical to believe in love, or that he thought less of his friend for his raptures - some women had that effect on a man, and as often as not it was a mystery to those who weren’t under her spell.

True love, however, is a topic nobody much cares for - save for those directly under it, and eventually their conversation turned to France. Apparently Ned and Catelyn had met there, and were returning for their anniversary. As for Robert, he was back to England for the season. Shortly Catelyn joined them, wheeling her way in, through a world with no intention to take her into account. Robert couldn’t compete with her for Ned’s attention, and didn’t try to, letting them enjoy themselves and each other.

Oberyn was talking to Baelish and a few others. The Americans was dressed a bit informally perhaps, as Americans often did, while Oberyn was dressed appropriately for visiting the opera, interviewing ambassadors and other grandees. In England no one would have remarked the contrast between the men but Americans have no idea of democracy. Odd, that.

A pale woman had caught Robert’s eye. A young lady, travelling alone - always promising, rarely delivering in Robert’s experience, had caught his eye.

“We could pass the time with a hand or two,” Oberyn suggested, as he produced a deck of cards from his top pocket and pretended to be clumsy as he shuffled. “Six-penny stakes to make it more interesting, what do you think?”

That was blood in the water to Robert Baratheon. He affected hesitation, and by the time they reached the next station, Robert would have earned back the cost of his ticket and more. He could feel it in his cracking knuckles.

By breakfast, Robert was a little poorer, but much wiser. Oberyn was a lamentable cheat, almost ostentatiously… but lost, consistently. Mellario could have won most hands, but folded early… not bothered by winning or losing. By the second deal, he could tell that Jaime and Professor Pyrcelle

were playing as secret partners. He kept his losses down, resisting subtle suggestions that the stakes be upped just when he held a surprisingly strong (but not winning) hand.

Catelyn and Ned were still talking in low voices, and as he politely could, Robert disengaged from the game, finished his cigar watching the dark woods and fields flow past at thirty miles an hour, then toddled off to the salon. It was quieter there, with only the rumble of wheels and the faint creak of coachwork.

* * * * *

That night he found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing he missed the motion of the train. They weren’t scheduled to make any stops, so he didn’t think it could have been a station outside. Yet without the motion of the train, it felt unusually loud. He could hear Baelish moving about next door – a click as he pulled down the washbasin, the sound of the tap running, a splashing noise, then another click as the basin shut to again.

Jaime Lannister lay awake staring at the ceiling, flushed with thoughts of Cersei and his own loneliness. How could thinks be so silent and loud at once? His throat felt dry, he’d drank to much at the evening meal, and hadn’t followed it up with a bottle of water. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time, and half wondered if he’d forgotten to wind it again. How else could it be just after a quarter past four? He resolved to ring for the conductor in the hopes of getting some water, but even as he stretched his finger to the bell, he heard a ting in the stillness. He left him to it. The man couldn’t answer every bell at once.

He sat bolt upright in his chair as a scream rang out down the hallway and then was cut suddenly short. He jumped to his feet without thinking or even considering and ran out into the corridor. The first scream had been a man's scream, but now a woman was screaming, on and on.

He burst out onto the corridor and skidded to a halt as he looked around him for a target. One of the Americans lay twisted on the floor, his eyes wide and staring. His clothes were splashed with blood, and more had soaked into the carpet around him. His throat had been torn out. Janna, who who he would have thought would have had a tougher stomach since she was traveling with the duchess, stood over the body, screaming and screaming, her hands pressed to her face in horror.

The conductor took her by the shoulders and turned her gently away from the body. Janna resisted at first, and then all the strength went out of her. She stopped screaming and stood in silence, her hands at her sides, staring blindly at the wall as tears ran unheeded down her cheeks. The other passengers were spilling out of their doors in various stages of undress, all of them demanding to know what had happened.

Ned knelt beside the body. There was a dagger on the carpet, not far from the victim’s hand, but there was no blood on the blade. The attack must have happened so quickly that he never even had a chance to defend himself. Ned looked closely at the man’s throat, and swore softly, then sat back on his haunches and scowled thoughtfully at the body.

At a time when most of the passengers were still asleep, or, if they were unusually energetic, were thinking of ringing for their early morning tea, Oberyn was dressed and at his usual state of deshabille.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Dowager Tyrell emerged from her cabin. Her gaze swept the corridor (almost certainly the only housework she’d ever done).

“You may well ask that.” The conductor replied with a kind of calm desperation. “First this snow - this stoppage. And now -”

“Mr Buckler has been murdered.” Ned said.

The dowager’s expression suggested that was the sort of thing she could imagine being of importance to Mr Buckler, and presumably any relatives that survived him, but she didn’t see what it had to do with her. “Well, if he must get himself killed, he could do it with a bit less fuss and not disturb the rest of us.” Jaime didn’t believe he’d ever heard anything so marvellously self-centred in all his life.

To his own surprise, Jaime found himself not knowing what to do. He’d seen death before, of course, but he was struggling to accustom himself to the reality of the situation, from the cosy Orient Express and all it’s luxury, chatting with strangers who didn’t know him from Adam, and attune his mind and reactions to the violent necessity of life with a murderer on the prowl. Where a pistol was the thing you needed, the article of a well-dressed man, not a smoking jacket, and the days business was a matter of struggle and danger, and quite often wounding and death, not a pleasant repast discussing the politics of Europe and the state of the Empire.

Now a bloody agent had appeared to violate the civilised atmosphere, the old death had appeared to run them down and out, making the rules. His gaze met the passengers, noticing ho had arrived first and who had taken time, who was dressed, and who had been with who the passing two days.

Proffesor Pyrcelle looked at him. He was standing beside the pale lady (dressed only in her nightdress), and Baelish (the glorified mechanic who called himself an engineer, and who actually looked existed), and looked very lost and very old. He was as white as chalk, an academic hoping that Jaime’s father would finance some project or another who had been rudely dragged from his bed and comfortable world to find himself outside the world as he understood it. He couldn’t understand it. Not the way Jaime could.

There was murder in the air.

* * * * *

Aegon Targaryen had been old - had been ancient - long before the first birth of Daena. And that, she never allowed herself to forget, had been six hundred and thirty-eight years ago. In true life, the life and the world she had lived in before she exchanged life and love for the more complex beauties of the night, Daena’s home had been the city of Calais, though her family had come from Venice in italy, the seat of all the world's wealth.

Her father was a duke, as well as a pirate, and had the papers to prove himself a king and an emperor, if of far away places he'd never visited no longer in christian hands, Constantinople and Jeruselum, and she and her cousins were counted among the greatest beauties of a court renowned throughout the Known World for its great beauties.

Aegon Targaryen had been more often abroad among men in those days and wont to show his face in the courts and palaces among the christian world. The stories were fresher then, the chaos of old night better understood, better felt. Tales were told in a whisper of his vast debauches, of his inconceivable crimes, of his devastating rages, of his titanic sorceries, of his terrible revenges. Aegon Targaryen had been one of the powers of the world, and he she supposed that - though most of the way forgotten by the grand, selfish society - he still was, though less like to glory in it as once he had.

As a girl of twelve, four years before the Embrace, Daena had seen Aegon Targaryen in person. She had never seen anything like him, bedecked in gorgeous silks, the colour of a bleached skull, his flesh; and the long hair which flows below his shoulders is milk-white. Aegon Targaryen had his tribute from Venice, but slew them nevertheless. As an example, he had said, but Daena had understood better, even at twelve. He had simply felt like killing.

Her father also perished, served with other public officials as a meal for one of the Vampire's attendant daemons. Even a decade later, Daena could summon little thirst for vengeance. Her father had been a great man, perhaps, as mortal society measured such things, but he would have lived another twenty, thirty years - thirty-five at the most - and would still be lost to her memory. It was hard to think the death of a mayfly as any great tragedy, or a loss at all. She sometimes found the faces of her parents, her brother who she had loved with more than sisterly affection, her friends at court, popping into her mind. But mostly those were lost times, a life that had happened to someone else.

A few years later, years that were now minutes to her memory, the other Aegon, the lesser Aegon came to her uncle's house. Aegon with his dark eyes and beard to hide his jowls, his needle-like teeth and tales of the world’s long forgotten youth - to all save him, anyway. He was a leech, a parasite not a predator, and he had desired her body, though he pretended to be above such things, but she was wise to him, and played along until she had what she wanted. He embraced her, and was born a second time, born into this world.

He was dead, too. He had always been too flamboyant for their kind and made too many important enemies. Finally, the servants of the White God hunted him down and pinned him to the ground with a length of hawthorn while they sawed off his head, and buried him on sacred ground. That was three hundred years ago. She was the last of his that she knew of, though he had been unusually profligate. There were many others older than she, but they lived apart from the world, and kept to themselves.

Centuries had passed and everything had changed many times. Empires, dynasties, wars, alliances, cities, a few great men, numberless little ones, monsters, arts and sciences, forests; all had come and gone like the seasons of the year. But Daena was still walking the earth. And so was Aegon Targaryen, and most of his brood, that mad, terrible lot, who had always murdered landlords and blamed them for being murdered, expelled by the volcano of history into the far quarters of the globe, where, with a venomous sense of grievance and inferiority, they even nowadays proclaimed their ancient megalomania.

She wondered if he felt the same suppressed kinship for her that she felt for him. There were songs that they alone of all the world would recognise, once-famous names that they alone knew, extinct animals the taste of whose meat they alone could recall. Probably, he did not feel for her. Probably, he was only dimly aware of her - she was not, afterall, of his blood. She was what she was, at best the cousin of humanity, but Aegon was beyond even that. He had ceased to be any kind of a man long before he rode into Venice.

She returned to her cabin. Death bored her, it always had.

* * * * *

Ned and Caatelyn got ready for bed again in silence. They’d been intimate more than any time in their marriage since the honeymoon since their holiday started, but neither felt in any sort of mood for that any more.

Ned sat in the chair by the bed and watched his wife brush her hair before the dressing table mirror. When fully unbound, her long auburn hair hung halfway down her back. Ned had always liked to watch her brush her hair, a simple intimate moment she shared with no one but him. It had only been a year, but they’d fit together so well it had felt like it could be forever.

Catelyn put down her hand mirror and caught him watching her. She smiled, but he looked quickly away. She put down her brush, and turned around to face him. She was wearing the white silk nightdress he'd bought her for her last birthday. She looked very lovely, and very defenseless.

“Don't ask me, Cat. Please. I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone.”

“I won’t." she said quietly. “But you should tell me. You know you can tell me.”

“But that’s it! I can’t.” He looked down at his late. “I can’t. I don’t know. I was asleep. Or I think I was asleep. But my dreams…” He paused. “They were only dreams.” He said, He sounded desperately unconvinced.

Cat wheeled her chair over to him and put a hand on his arm, and he reached blindly across to squeeze it tightly. Ned looked down at her. He tried to say something, and couldn't. He took her in his arms and held her tightly, and he smiled, to show how right he was, and revealed a mouthful of giant, rending teeth. Cat didn’t recoil in horror, the way she instinctively wanted to, but she couldn’t suppress a gasp.

Ned saw her expression, and dismay crossed his roughened features. But something under the dismay - and not too far under, not as far as she wanted to believe - was something else. Something that capered and grinned and liked showing it’s teeth. Something that would chase prey until blood flew from the prey’s nose in it’s terror, until it moaned and begged. Something that would laugh as it tore the screaming prey open.

It would laugh even if she were the prey.

Especially if she were the prey.

“I’m sorry, Cat.” He said, and the moment was past. “The time, it’s coming. We’ll have to do something. I can’t be trapped in here with all these people, not when the time comes. “We’ll…”

“You didn’t kill him.” She said. She was scared, how couldn’t she be? But he needed her, and she knew he didn’t, so she held him in her arms, and was strong enough for both of them. “It’ll be fine.”

She just hoped she could believe it for both of them.


End file.
